You Have Forsaken Me Now
by The Rebellious Observer
Summary: “And all the little children died.” Life through the eyes of Lucius Malfoy. Darkfic. H/D slash.


Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter, nor do I make any money off of it. I mean, that's sort of obvious, right? Because, really, if I did, I assure you that Draco and Harry would most _definitely_—mpht! #muses gag her and drag her away; she sputters unintelligibly in the background#

Author's note: #she escapes long enough to run back for a few more brief (ha!) words# Er, slight warnings: There are some blatant references to H/D slash (which means that there is a homosexual relationship, for those of you not yet accustomed to fanon lingo); if you're looking for fluff (which I rather enjoy as well, I assure you =o), you should probably just skip this story—it's a deathfic. It's short, dark, deranged, and practically incoherent, but if you've got a minute or two to spare, then I do hope you'll read and, hopefully, enjoy it. #muses again drag her away, afraid she'll keep embarrassing them# Me: Be gone, heathenish muses! #she is, predictably, ignored ^_~#

*Lucius's Point of View* 

Perhaps you think I never loved you.

But I did. I think I still do. This is my shame. 

I think you loved me too, and that is (one of) yours.

You were a beautiful baby—some people just say that, because all babies are supposed to be beautiful, after all, but you really looked like a perfect little child (because that's what you were).

You were our little precious creation, all pale ringlets and guileless smiles, and sometimes I would marvel to myself at the mysteriousness of it all—I never knew someone like you could come from me. 

Maybe it was all from your mother, from another time (when she had guileless smiles too).

I held you all the time, you know, but you don't remember that. You're not supposed to remember that.

I came home a murderer, some days, and picked you up out of your prince's cradle to hold you and hold you and hold you, and I don't think you knew what my tears were for. Your chubby little arms wrapped around my neck and you seemed to know that something was wrong, though you didn't know what. 

Your eyes were filled with adoration, not knowing that I'd killed a thousand muggle babies almost exactly like you (sometimes I saw your face looking back at me as I whispered out the words and all the little children died, but you never knew that) because you couldn't see the blood on my hands.

Sometimes I'd wonder what gave you the right to look at the world like that (like an innocent), and I thought for a moment that maybe you'd stolen it from my victims (like a vulture). But then I realized that it was me who'd done that, and your nativity was real, so I took that from you too, because I knew it was the only way to stay alive. 

I remember how you screamed that first time, when I whispered "Crucio" and you crumpled to the floor at the end of my wand—and your mother, she was screaming too, shouting—shrieking—"He's only a child!"—as if she somehow thought that made it okay to keep you the way that you were. She didn't understand that I was teaching you—and I did teach you, son. You never hugged me again, and that's a good thing, because it helps not to care. You're not supposed to care, son.

We gave you all we could give (I gave you all I could give) and sent you away; that was the worst mistake we could have made.

He corrupted you.

He took what wasn't his—made you believe in the lies that dripped from his pretty little whore-red lips.

Don't think I didn't find out, Draco—I did.

I know everything.

Do you remember that Syltherin who caught you two fucking in that empty classroom? Remember how you paid him to keep quiet? You shouldn't have trusted him. I paid him twice as much to talk, and he told me everything.

I didn't want to believe that famous Harry-fucking-Potter had done that, had claimed you—but he had, and I bet you loved every second of it (what did he promise you? why did you believe him? did those hollow words feel good, son? would you die for them?).

You were mine, Draco; didn't you know that?

You were my child; my son; my heir; you have forsaken me now.

You thought you'd have to choose: him or me (lover or family).

But you'd already chosen, Draco—you picked the losing side.

You have no one to blame but yourself.

Why did you come back to this house, son? 

Did you think I didn't know? Did you think I would forgive you? 

It's Christmas time and the trees are dying—what makes you think you can't die too? 

You sleep so peacefully, like a child—are you dreaming of him?

I watch you sleep, looking like that child I once knew (but you're not a child, Goddamn you) and remember the day you were born (I was so proud; I wish I'd known…).

I am again amazed (how could someone like you come from me?). 

I've watched your entire life play out before my eyes, son, and I came home a murderer today. 

I quietly creep towards your bed—your prince's (traitor's) bed—and you don't even wake up—you don't even scream (like those babies with your tiny little face used to do) when I whisper those two little words.

You are so young…and are you still my child after all? 

You used to look at me with innocence so pure it actually hurt—but those days are dead (for you have forsaken me now, in a flash of blinding green that lights up the room).

It's all too ironic, really; the green has killed us all.

You lie there; cold; dead.

And then I turn my wand around and leave my troubles behind with the promise of death pressed firmly at my temple; I remember when I saw you say your first word and the last time your mother smiled at me like she really cared; then everything drifts away with the echo of my words into a bottle green oblivion.


End file.
